Wishes for Willa

Wishes for Willa

The family gathered around Willa’s bed.  They’d gotten special permission from the doctors to bring in a birthday cake, candles and all.  Willa only needed her oxygen when she slept, so the nurses had turned it off during morning rounds and said the room was safe now for the tiny flames.

John looked long and hard at his daughter, lying still in the bed.  Just six months ago she’d been a happy and healthy little girl.  Now, thanks to the cancer that was eating away at her, she’d withered away to almost nothing.  Willa still tried to be happy, but only the morphine allowed her to interact with anyone now.  John wished he could take Willa’s pain for her, but that was impossible.

John took another look at Willa’s sallow and sunken face and tried to smile.  She’d told her parents that she wanted one last birthday party before she died, so John had moved heaven and earth to get his little girl her last wish.  She’d said she didn’t want any presents but the party.

John looked meaningfully at his wife, Martha, standing on the other side of the bed.  She nodded and pulled a large syringe out of her purse, inserting the end into one of the medicine ports of Willa’s IV as he distracted her.  Once it was in, Martha laid it on the bed and then walked back around the bed to stand next to her husband.

John kissed Willa’s cheek tenderly, and then brought his lighter, purchased just for this occasion, out of his pant’s pocket.  He smiled at his little girl and swiped a calloused finger through the icing at the edge of the cake.  Willa’d always liked the icing better than the cake itself.  He brought the sweet morsel to Willa’s lips and waited for her to open her mouth.  This was an old game played by the two of them, reenacted every year.  Of course, Willa was too sick now to be allowed to eat anything, but he put his finger between her lips and let her taste.  Willa’s smile was worth it.

John told his daughter that it was time to light the candles.  Each member of the family would light one of them, giving their wish for her at the same time.  John was first.  As he ceremonially held the flame to the tip of the candle, he told his daughter, “My wish for you is freedom.”  He then handed the lighter to Martha.

Martha repeated the ceremony, saying, “My wish for you is joy, in this life and the next.”  Blinking back her tears, she turned to David, Willa’s oldest brother and handed him the lighter.  Fifteen year old David’s wish was for Willa to dance again, as she’d always loved to.

The lighter went down the line of people who loved this little girl, each one giving her their wish for this day.

From sister Sarah it was for long, beautiful hair again.  From Uncle Pete was the wish for her to always laugh.  Aunt Joanie’s was peace in her soul and cousin Joe wanted her to always see the butterflies and sparrows around her.  Finally, the lighter came to Grandma Josephine.  Her eyes were sad as she lit the lone remaining candle and whispered to her granddaughter, “My wish for you is to always walk in the light, dear child.”

Willa smiled at the richness she’d received on her special day. In a hoarse, cracked voice she whispered, “Love you,” and then closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort.  The excitement was wearing off, and the interminable pain was returning.

Before he could change his mind, John stepped forward and pressed the plunger on the syringe, injecting into his daughter’s veins the mixture of heroin that he had bought two weeks ago.  The man had promised him that it was very strong, and so it proved to be.  As the drug spread through Willa’s body, the deep lines of pain in her face smoothed away, leaving her looking almost as she had before the illness had stolen her from them.

Placing another kiss on the smoothened brow, John whispered, “I love you baby; I give you back your freedom.  Dance with the angels, now.”

John pulled the syringe from the IV and slipped it into his pocket, then walked out the door to find the doctor and tell him that Willa Carson was gone.


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